


Practice Makes Perfect

by StarkMad



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, JonxArya Week, can be read as non romantic, short and sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 11:06:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7100566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkMad/pseuds/StarkMad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With her mouth twisted in a grimace, she pushed the needle through for the final stitch, fingers steady throughout.</p>
<p>Pretty stitches.</p>
<p>Neat stitches.</p>
<p>She was, undeniably, getting better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practice Makes Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Written for JonxAryaWeek on Tumblr.
> 
> Day 1: Favourite Memory/Stick Them With The Pointy End

With her mouth twisted in a grimace, she pushed the needle through for the final stitch, fingers steady throughout.

Pretty stitches.

_Neat_ stitches.

She was, undeniably, getting better.

She wiped her hands clean on a damp cloth, amused for a moment.

In another life, the perfect, almost invisible line of the seam would have garnered praise. Now though, neat stitches simply meant no obvious scarring. Of course, in another life, needlework simply meant practicing one of the many womanly arts that would’ve occupied the life of a lady, or mending cloth, maybe, for one’s household.

Looking down at her leg, at the new wound, skin still slightly raised, pink around the edges, sutures straight and, well, _almost_ pretty-looking, no one could ever say she had the hands of a blacksmith now.

She took the time to admire it for a bit, no other pressing matter that needed her attention yet. The bruises along her sides were already turning a fascinating shade of purple and blue. She would feel them later, she was sure, though the wound on her leg stung like _fuckin’_ hells still, not having had the chance to take anything to numb the pain yet.

She couldn’t yet master sewing herself up while on milk of the poppy without risking crooked stitches. Crooked stitches meant slicing the skin open again, a cleaner cut needed, never failing to burn with pain, so that better stitches could be done.

It was just better to get it right the first time, all the time. No need to experience getting cut more than necessary.

The light from the torches that lined the dark stone walls around her danced against her skin.

Ignoring her reflection on the polished sheets of copper that hung on the walls, she wiped down whatever part of herself she could.

She’d draw a bath later, she thought decidedly, a reward for her latest mission.

And maybe she’ll dream a bit as she soaked in the water, of hot springs and cold air and strangely warm-stone walls. Another lifetime ago.

 

* * *

 

 

Arya’s heart was in her throat. Tears burned in her eyes.

“I wish you were coming with us.”

Arya ran to Jon for a last hug after she set down his gift almost shyly.

She didn’t want to let go, didn’t dare to even as she showered him with kisses. Jon’s arms were safe and warm, lifting her easily from the ground to give her a short twirl.

He set her back on her feet, and although he liked to tease about their difference in height, there was nothing quite like being the right size to press her ear against his chest and hear that steady thump underneath.

Arya fiercely blinked the tears away. It wouldn’t do for him to see her cry. She felt him press a kiss on her brow, and breathed in with an effort to calm herself.

Later, with a newly named sword in hand, she parried invisible foes, slashing the blade through the air. Jon’s first lesson ringing in her ear.

_Stick them with the pointy end._

She’d practice her needlework, and someday they’d see each other again. She’d see Jon’s smile again.

 

She tightened her grip on Needle.

* * *

 

 

The sword was smaller than she remembered. The metal was cooler than it had any right to be, glinting under the Braavosi sun.

It was still the same skinny little thing Jon had given her a lifetime ago.

Arya Stark’s lips twitched as another memory that came unbidden. Would he still muss up her hair, she wondered. Would he still call her _skinny_ and _little sister_? Would he give her a twirl and let her shower him with kisses? Would he stare back with those eyes that mirrored her own, breathe the same air, and smile that warm smile that was all for her? Would he ask about her needlework, even as they giggled over what Sansa would possibly say?

 

It didn’t matter, she thought as she wrapped it back in cloth.

 

She’d know soon enough, she was sure, looking out across the expanse of the sea between her and _home_.

 


End file.
